


Pretty OK

by yuletide_archivist



Category: 21 Jump Street (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-02
Updated: 2005-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All right. So Hanson looks OK in that getup, he looks pretty OK. So what? In between the hair, spiked up all cool, and the boots, black-and-buckle, somewhere underneath, he's still Hanson -- he's still itching to get out of this getup, just like Penhall is itching to get out of his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty OK

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Hel Virago

 

 

All right. So Hanson looks OK in that getup, he looks pretty OK. So what? In between the hair, spiked up all cool, and the boots, black-and-buckle, somewhere underneath, he's still Hanson -- he's still itching to get out of this getup, just like Penhall is itching to get out of his. It's like they've switched places, like Captain Fuller thinks it's funny to twist them up this way. Penhall likes to laugh as much as the next guy, you know, but he's not laughing this time. Neither is Hanson, but then again Hanson isn't really big on jokes. Not as bad as Penhall thought at first, but no one's going to say he's big on jokes. Hanson's pretty straight-edge. That's why it's so weird that he looks OK in that getup. And he looks pretty OK.

The idea of Hanson in a pit flinging himself around, elbows and knees and the thoughtless exhilaration, is squeezed in just between a laugh and impossible. Penhall keeps eyeballing him when he should be watching the road, little sideways glances. _Hanson, in a pit. Hanson, slamming it. Jee-eez Louise!_ Penhall still holds that he would do this one better, that he should be the one in Hanson's shoes. It's not that Hanson doesn't wear them well because that right there is the source of Penhall's inner conflict. It's Penhall's version of an existential crisis. Hanson, in a pit! Hanson, slamming it! "Jee-eez Lou _ise_ ," Penhall mutters. "You're not a _bruiser_ , are ya?"

Hanson waves his hand, pulls a face. " _Naaah,_ " he says. "It wasn't that bad, even. You know that? It wasn't bowling, but it wasn't that bad."

Penhall knows he shouldn't stare. Number one, his mother taught him not to, and number two, he's still the one who's driving the darn car. It's just pretty distracting. Whatever Hoffs did to Hanson, she sure knows her stuff. He's got something darker on his lips, and now he smells like sweat from the pit, and his brand new leather jacket. With studs. With _studs._ What the heck does Hanson need a jacket with studs for -- Penhall is the kind of guy who can appreciate studs. Hanson's the kind of guy who can compare studs to bowling. And that earring he's got -- and the things Hoffs has done to his hair -- so that Hanson looks more than OK in that getup, he looks _pretty_ OK.

"Something bothering you, Penhall?" Hanson asks. Penhall grunts.

"Yeah, fine, fine," Penhall says. "Peaches and roses." Which means something is bothering him big-time, and now it's being pushed out into the open. Hanson bites the corner of his thumbnail and now they engage in a back-and-forth of almost looking at each other. How long is this car ride, anyway, Penhall wonders, because it wasn't this long on the ride out. _Jee-eez Louise!_ He doesn't have the time to play games with Hanson, who looks like he just fell off the cover of Delinquents Monthly, because frankly, that's Penhall's kind of thing and not Hanson's. Penhall hasn't been this ticked off since Hanson first arrived at the chapel. Lately they've even been friends; they work well together. But now this assignment's been thrown at them and it's mixed everything up, got things all confusing. Hanson shouldn't be able to step into anyone else's shoes so easily, but he is. And here he is, in Penhall's shoes of all places. Literally. Penhall didn't even buy those shoes a month ago and Hanson's already in them.

"But I don't know," Hanson's saying, "I guess I just don't _get_ the music, you know? If these are the songs of anarchy, man, I'd rather listen to the democracy station 'cause those are some angry people in there." Penhall takes another good sneaky look at Hanson, and those words coming from that dark mouth in that pale face with spikes of dark hair and dark shadows all around it make Penhall slam on the breaks. Hanson oofs forward and thumps back. "Man, Penhall, what the heck're you doing?" Hanson demands, once things have settled down a little in the car and his seatbelt's no longer trying to kill him. "What's gotten into you, man? You gone _crazy_ or something?"

"Do you listen to yourself? _The democracy station?_ You shouldn't be wearing those clothes, man, it's disrespect!"

"Well," Hanson says. "I didn't know you felt that way, Penhall." Penhall shifts, trying to figure if Hanson's playing with him, making fun. You really can't tell with Hanson. He's never entirely one thing or another. But whatever he is, he usually takes it pretty seriously. "But Captain Fuller gave _me_ this part of the job, and _that's_ what I'm gonna do."

"You say _okie-dokie_ , for Chrissakes, and sometimes, I really think you mean it!" Penhall puts his head in his hands, knocks his own forehead, and pulls hard on his cheeks on his way back up. "Look, Hanson, I ain't got nothin' against you, man, but sometimes there's jobs _you're_ meant for, and this," Penhall gestures wildly, " _this_ ain't one of 'em!"

"I don't know," Hanson says. He lowers his voice, brings his head in close. "Just between you and me, Penhall, but I think maybe I had fun in there."

Penhall blinks. "You what?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Hanson admits. "But I jumped off the speakers, man. And these crazy kids caught me before I went all the way down."

Penhall tries to imagine the scene, the reserved and sometimes jumpy Detective Hanson who walked into his life one day with the most depressing haircut this side of the sixties, all of a sudden wearing bondage pants as he leaped from above like some sort of next-generation superhero, fighting crime while wearing plaid. And getting caught. And _actually getting caught_ by the pit, which Penhall knows from experience is unforgiving and mutinous. Penhall stares really hard at Hanson, trying to figure if Hanson's having him on. No one says the phrase _democracy station_ one second and admits he likes slamming it the next. No one except for Hanson, apparently, who rubs at the corner of his own mouth and looks about twelve years old, tops.

"It is kinda fun," Penhall says. "Heck, man, just don't compare it to bowling."

"Completely different kind of fun," Hanson acquiesces. "Different kind of power."

"Being in the pit is like being king with everybody else," Penhall explains, trying to set Hanson straight. "Bowling is throwing a big round piece of rock at some pins. It's different."

"Penhall," Hanson says. "I didn't know you were a poet."

"Yeah, well," Penhall replies, "I got unplumbed depths. You too, you know that?"

"Maybe," Hanson says, then, " _naaah,_ probably not. We're cool?" They must be cool, Penhall figures, because when Hanson smiles he's smiling back. And then Penhall ruffles Hanson's hair, which is hard and stiff with gel, and gets him in a headlock.

"We're cool," Penhall confirms.

"I'm choking, but we're cool," Hanson gasps. "If we're cool, you can stop killing me now."

"Oh yeah," Penhall says, "sorry." He laughs, sheepish. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength." He lets Hanson go and starts up the engine. It still isn't fair, though. Hanson even got the better hairdo this time. He should stick to being nerds and preppies. It suits him better, doesn't seem like a whole new Hanson with whom Penhall hasn't ever been acquainted. This new Hanson makes him nervous because this new Hanson looks more than OK in that getup. Maybe it isn't so much the getup that's bothering him, but the new Hanson. The new Hanson who looks more than OK. _Jee-eez Louise_. This new Hanson is a whole lot more trouble than he's worth. "You're pretty strange lookin'," Penhall says, "anybody ever tell you that?"

"I'd assume not to my face, no," Hanson replies, but he's curious. Penhall gets the feeling he wants to ask what's brought this on. At the next light, Penhall feels generous.

"I dunno, it's just, you always look like somebody different for these things, that's all."

"Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Look like somebody different?"

"Yeah, I guess." Penhall rakes one hand through his hair, tugging the stupid elastic out and messing up the stupid ponytail. "It's just that Hoffs always looks like Hoffs and Ioki always looks like Ioki and I'm pretty sure I always look like me, but you always look like somebody different every time. That's all."

Hanson chews on that until they stop at the next red light. "I just thought that's what we were supposed to do, that's all," he says. His brow furrows. "I just thought we were supposed to look different each time."

"Well, different, yeah," Penhall says. "Just not, you know, _different._ Like I don't know you -- like you're not Hanson."

"I'm sort of not, am I?" Hanson asks. "I'm just getting in character, that's all."

"We all get in character." Penhall frowns. "Maybe I ain't explainin' myself, but when I saw you tonight I thought for a minute there I didn't even _know_ you."

"Heck, Penhall," Hanson begins. He doesn't finish it. He brings his knee up to his chest -- _careful with the upholstery!_ Penhall thinks -- and stares out the front window. His profile makes Penhall think for a minute he's on a date with a pretty good looking girl, and this is the exact point where everything goes sour.

"Don't think about it," Penhall says, easing up a little. "Hey, look, don't think about it. It's just late, that's all."

Hanson looks at Penhall. Penhall looks at Hanson. Hanson looks like he's going to start lecturing Penhall of the importance of keeping his eyes on the road. Penhall looks like he'll put Hanson's face through the dashboard if he says a single word. Hanson doesn't say anything. Penhall doesn't put Hanson's face through the dashboard. It's almost companionable.

"You're pretty convincin' in that getup," Penhall says.

Hanson blinks a couple of times. "Yeah, you think so?"

"I _know_ so. You oughta dress like this most of the time -- brings out your cheekbones or somethin'. And _man_ \-- you got cheekbones you could cut cheese with."

"Uh," Hanson says. "Well, thank you. I guess."

Now things are uncomfortable. Penhall, who never really needed lessons on the divine art of guyhood, knows that one of the things one guy never does with another guy is compliment him on anything other than his moves with the ladies. So cheekbones are kind of out where conversation is concerned. You can talk to another guy about how great his car is, or his girlfriend, or his pad, or his pitch or his swing, but if you get into his facial structure you're officially the kind of guy no other respectable guy will ever hang out with. "Uh," Penhall agrees. "Yeah, it's just late, that's all." It's just late, and Penhall's just lost his mind. No matter how great a guy's cheekbones are, you just don't say anything about it. The number one rule of guyhood and Penhall may as well have cuffed it and thrown it in the clinker. He may as well cuff himself and be thrown in the clinker, too, because that's it, his life is over. This has been one heck of a night. Losing his self-respect and his sanity all in the space of an hour is a pretty big accomplishment. The car feels hot, too, and Hanson keeps shifting, probably wondering when the car will slow down so he can leap out of it to safety. Penhall makes the mistake of looking over at him and finds Hanson looking back. Great. Now neither of them can look away. And if there's a rule even more important in the divine art of guyhood than not complimenting another guy on facial structure, it's looking him in the eye in a dark car and thinking how good he looks with that stupid earring dangling next to his face. And also still thinking about his cheekbones.

"You know," Hanson says. "Uh. Penhall."

Penhall slams on the breaks a second time. This time Hanson thinks quick and braces himself. The breaks squeal on the dark road.

"Dammit, Penhall, you trying to kill me?"

Penhall ponders it. _Yes,_ his mind kids a bit deliriously, _kill him and hide the body and no one will never know._ Except the police in these parts are pretty good. He should know. He's one of them.

"Let's just forget the whole cheekbone thing," Hanson offers benevolently. "Everyone has cheekbones."

Penhall groans inwardly. There's a list in his head, getting longer by the minute, of all the stupid things Hanson has said. It's just slightly shorter than the list of all the stupid things Penhall has said, but it's a close race.

It's only when Penhall makes the grave mistake of looking down -- Hanson's thigh, plaid, a buckle, and the slither of hanging suspenders -- that things begin to solidify. Penhall gets this feeling; it's the same feeling he gets when he's looking at a girl in a tight skirt or a lingerie magazine or anything with breasts or anything with nice legs or anything that swishes when it walks and wears lipstick. It's the same feeling that never lies, and it's the lipstick Hanson's wearing that's done it to him. It's got him all confused.

" _Jee-eez Louise,_ " Penhall says incredulously, and leans in for the kill.

Another rule of guyhood -- never kiss another guy under any circumstances, even if your life, liberty and pursuit of happiness depends on it -- out the window. The slide of Hanson's thigh, plaid, a buckle and the slither of hanging suspenders up against Penhall's new upholstery says otherwise. Penhall knows his kisses, and this one's pretty OK.

"Hey Penhall," Hanson says, which seems kind of funny when there's only space enough for breath between them.

"Yeah?" Penhall's already impatient.

Hanson grins like he gets a good joke now and then. "You're not a _bruiser_ , are you?"

 


End file.
